


The Deep Well of Desire

by Heatherlly



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:25:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heatherlly/pseuds/Heatherlly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Druid lore speaks of an ancient spring that lies deep within the recesses of the Darkling Wood, where any man or woman who drinks from its waters will be granted a vision of their heart's deepest desire. The memory itself never lingers upon awakening, it is said, only a feeling of solace for any lost soul that finds itself in need of comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merlin's Unspoken Grief

**Title:** The Deep Well of Desire  
 **Category:** Multi (Canon)  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Merlin, Various Characters  
 **Rating/Warnings:** M  
 **Summary:** Druid lore speaks of an ancient spring that lies deep within the recesses of the Darkling Wood, where any man or woman who drinks from its waters will be granted a vision of their heart's deepest desire. The memory itself never lingers upon awakening, it is said, only a feeling of solace for any lost soul that finds itself in need of comfort.

* * *

#  **Merlin's Unspoken Grief**

* * *

Hot, salty tears poured down Merlin's cheeks as he ran blindly through the silent forest. His heart beat frantically as he fled, somehow believing that if he just kept moving, he could escape the reality of Freya's death.

His exhausted muscles screamed in protest at the unaccustomed exertion, as ragged, gulping breaths burned his parched throat, already raw and aching from the grief he'd spent on the shores of the lake of Avalon. Rough branches left bloodied scratches on his tender skin, and his feet began to blister as they pounded in endless repetition against the hard, unforgiving ground.

The pain didn't matter; Merlin welcomed the physical discomfort, especially when it became so overwhelming that it suppressed any thought of the hollow anguish he wasn't prepared to acknowledge. Run, run, he must keep running. He didn't care where he was going, or what he might encounter along the way. All he knew was that _he had to keep running._

He tripped and fell once, twice, a dozen times, rising quickly to press on even harder. It was only when his fatigued body had nothing left to give that he collapsed for a final time and lay panting in the dirt.

The forest that surrounded him was black and forbidding, without a familiar landmark to be seen. Night was falling quickly, and the distant, ominous sound of a feral howl echoed through the towering trees. Merlin was alone, perhaps more so than he'd ever been in his life, but he managed to hold his fears at bay with a firm reminder that his own powerful magic would be a force to be reckoned with against any foe he might encounter.

Still, a bracing fire surely couldn't do any harm.

" _Forbearnan_ ," he whispered, raising his head slightly as he extended a shaky hand over a pile of decaying leaves that transformed instantly into a cheery blaze.

It was only after his harsh, ragged breathing had settled into a quieter and more natural rhythm that the soft sound of gurgling water reached his ears. He was desperately thirsty, he realized then, his body parched by the endless onslaught of weeping that had only ended when he'd had no more tears left to shed. _Water_ , he needed water, and with a pressing urgency he could ignore no longer.

Merlin struggled to his aching feet, hissing at the pain as several blisters came open, rubbed raw under the renewed pressure. He shuffled across the clearing on shaky legs, bending down to peer through the brush to locate the source of the tantalizing sound.

Reflected by moonlight, the crystal clear water shone like a beacon, urging him forward with a fresh burst of energy. He fell to his knees and drank greedily from the depths of the tiny spring, gulping in huge mouthfuls of cool, refreshing liquid and nearly sobbing in relief as it slid down to soothe the raw flesh of his burning throat.

Sated at last, he fell upon the grassy bank and lay still. His body felt heavy, languid, as if he could sleep for years and it still wouldn't be enough. Painful reminders of Freya still pricked at the edge of his consciousness, but so much more powerful even than those was the urge to simply close his eyes and drift away. Just a few minutes of rest, and he'd...

* * *

Freya was nestled in his arms, blinking at him sleepily with her large, dark eyes as her lips curled into a drowsy smile. They were both buried beneath the blankets in a warm, soft bed, arms and legs entangled in a comfortable embrace.

Morning sunlight shone through the windows of their cozy cottage, accompanied by the gentle lapping of the lake that lay just beyond their door. Merlin inhaled deeply, releasing the breath in a soft sigh of contentment as the familiar scent of fragrant herbs filled his nostrils. His gaze traveled lazily around the room, and he smiled at the hopeless clutter that made up the simple, yet infinitely fulfilling life they'd built together.

Tiny vials littered the kitchen table, proof of Freya's determination to learn the arts of healing that had captured her interest during her time with the Druids. A pile of books lay haphazardly on a nearby chair, threatening to topple over at even the smallest disturbance; his tomes of lore and incantations were nestled between her instructional manuals on brewing potions and the treatments for any number of common maladies.

The pale green dress Freya had worn the previous night lay crumpled on the floor,  along with the trousers he'd removed in all due haste when he'd discovered her lying naked in bed, staring at him longingly as she'd waited for him to join her.

They had made love there in the darkness, with only the flickering of a lone candle to illuminate the beautiful features of the woman he adored. Merlin's body flooded with heat at the memory and he turned in her arms, relishing the velvety texture of her soft skin as he caressed her bare back.

She smiled at him playfully as their lips met in a tender, leisurely kiss, sliding a leg up to curl around his naked hip as she pressed herself against him with a soft sound of encouragement.

There were times when she preferred to have her body lavished beforehand, and others when she simply wanted to feel him inside her without any need for the ministrations that usually led up to that point. Merlin had memorized all her signals by then, responding to her by instinct when he sought to give her the type of pleasure she craved in that particular moment.

He immediately shifted positions, rising up on his elbows as she opened her thighs to cradle his slender hips between them. She didn't avert their gaze like she had the first few times they'd lain together, made shy and self-conscious by the unfamiliar intimacy between them. No, she was far beyond that now, gazing deeply into his eyes as he entered her, filling her completely with one sure stroke.

Merlin didn't move at first, relishing the exquisite warmth that enveloped him from head to toe. His eyes drifted closed as he allowed himself to be consumed by every part of her – the soft mouth that opened under his in a deep, lingering  kiss, the sweet breath that mingled between them as they shared a contented sigh. He trembled as she pulled him closer, her fingers trailing lazily up and down his back as she waited patiently for him to absorb the initial pleasure and continue.

It was a moment of sheer perfection he always tried to capture, just before the instinctive hunger overpowered his senses, compelling his body to move in a rhythm that was older than time itself.

 _Slowly,_ he reminded himself as he finally withdrew, then eased his way back into her sweet warmth. _Slowly..._

Freya knew this dance as well as he did by then, always anticipating his inner battle to hold himself in check and prolong their lovemaking as long as he could possibly manage. Sometimes she made it easy for him, keeping herself calm and submissive as she adjusted herself to his slow, steady pace. They would continue for hours when she allowed him to maintain control, a gradual build that knew no sense of urgency, only lingering pleasure.

But it wasn't always so easy. Freya was a passionate woman with a devious side he equally adored, and she often went out of her way to drive him so mad with desire that any thought of prolonging _anything_ flew right out of his head. He'd take her swiftly then, fiercely, almost violently if she pushed him that far, while she writhed beneath the onslaught of his straining body, crying out words he no longer needed to encourage his intensity, though he savored them nonetheless.

Faster... harder... deeper...

That had been one of the miraculous discoveries Merlin had made about the woman he'd grown to love with his entire body and soul. Every time they made love was like the first time, for he never quite knew which side of her would be unleashed at any given moment. Sometimes she'd be as playful as a kitten while others, he'd find her as savage as some feral beast, starved for the pleasure she craved and willing to go to any lengths to get it as quickly as possible.

On that morning, she was sweet and gentle, her face still soft from slumber as she gave herself over to him, fully content to allow him to lead the way. And so he took her lovingly, matching every lingering thrust with slow, yet hungry kisses as she moaned softly and ran her fingers through his hair.

It was only when the sun had risen high in the sky that he flipped over, urging her to straddle his hips and take the lead. His heavy lidded eyes devoured every inch of her beautiful, sweat drenched body as she began to move in the intoxicating rhythm that was intimately familiar, yet never failed to inflame his senses beyond all reason.

She threw her head back and moaned, whispering his name on a ragged sob as she suddenly began to tremble beneath the force of a powerful climax. That was all it took; he followed swiftly, letting out a loud gasp as a blinding wave of pleasure pulsed through his body and connected with hers.

His arms encircled her as she fell limply against his chest, holding her close as they both lay dazed in the aftermath of a passion that only seemed to grow more intoxicating with the passing of time, never less so. He felt her breathing slow after a few minutes, then grow deep and even as she drifted off to sleep. Smiling to himself, he cradled her slumbering body and placed a tender kiss to her forehead before his own eyes drifted closed…

* * *

Merlin awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the blinding sunlight that beat down on his face through the unfamiliar trees. _What...?_ his bewildered mind cast about anxiously. _Where am I?_

Then he recalled his headlong flight through the forest, followed by fainter memories of slaking his thirst beside a spring that he must have wandered away from afterwards, for it was no longer anywhere to be seen. Finally, there was a dim, distant memory of losing himself to the black oblivion of an exhausted slumber.

After that, he remembered nothing.

He rose to his feet with a heavy sigh, wincing at the pain that radiated from his raw, blistered soles. His muscles still burned with exhaustion; he would've loved nothing better than to lie back down and drift off to sleep for a few more hours.

But he'd been away for too long already, and Gaius would surely be frantic with worry. Despite his own reluctance to deal with the old physician's coddling, and his outright dread at what Arthur would say about him missing a day of work, he knew that prolonging his absence would only make matters worse.

Grief still lay heavy upon his shoulders, but while it was no less painful than it had been the previous day, the awful, mindless impulse to escape was gone. No, there were too many people relying on him, loved ones that needed him to be strong. For their sake, he'd do everything he could to swallow his pain, holding it inside until time began to heal his broken heart.

As he crested a rise and saw the familiar towers of the Citadel in the distance, Merlin remembered the one thing that lent strength to his weary feet, carrying him the rest of the way home with a feeling of bittersweet resignation. No matter how painful it might be to dwell upon what had happened to Freya, he could _never_ bring himself to regret everything that had passed between them during the short time they'd been given.

That, if nothing else, was worth the pain.


	2. Morgana's Cherished Wish

#  **Morgana's Cherished Wish**

* * *

Morgana trudged wearily through the dimly lit forest, trying to ignore the towering trees that pressed close on either side... looming, sinister, as if they might come to life at any second and snatch at her with their gnarled limbs, then crush the life out of her fragile body.

Disregarding her fear was becoming easier as the hours passed, purple twilight having long ago faded into the inky blackness of night. She'd stopped gasping in fright at the sound of night birds, the sudden rustle of small woodland creatures that stirred in the brush as she passed. When a howl echoed in the distance, low pitched and feral, she didn't even flinch, only quickened her steps along the seemingly unending path.

It wasn't that she was any less afraid as the night deepened around her, she was just becoming too uncomfortable to pay it much heed. No, other feelings were far stronger now... the hunger that clawed at her belly, as she cursed herself for not having had the forethought to pack supplies. A chill breeze bit mercilessly into her skin, as she pulled her velvet cloak more closely around her shivering body and wondered why she hadn't thought to dress more warmly.

Worst of all was the thirst, causing her to lick her parched lips until they bled, wincing at the raw ache that had settled in her bone dry throat. If nothing else, she could at least have thought to bring along a water skin. How could she have been so foolish?!

But she knew the reason behind her carelessness, chastising herself even as her thoughts returned to the single-minded terror that had driven her to seek out the Druids. Magic... sorcery... certain death. How could anyone stop and think logically about proper supplies with threats like those looming over their head?

It still made her angry that it had even been necessary to flee her home, the one place that _should_ have promised safety and acceptance, in search of a strange, unknown people who were the only ones who might be able to give her the answers she desperately needed. She resented the way she'd felt she had to sneak away under cover of darkness, like a criminal, despite the fact that she'd never done anything to hurt anyone in her life.

Morgana had just stepped over a fallen log that lay in her path when she heard it... the distinct sound of gently bubbling water only a short distance away. She swallowed hard, flinching at the jolt of pain as her raw throat practically screamed in protest. And then she was crashing through the underbrush, no longer caring what hidden creatures, or if even the trees themselves, came down upon her head. _Water_... she needed water.

It was a tiny spring, but the water was cool and clear, impossibly refreshing as she threw herself down on her stomach and drank deeply, letting out a helpless moan of pleasure as the soothing liquid seemed to immediately heal her painfully cracked lips. Down her throat it traveled as she continued to drink, then lower still, not only acting as a balm for her thirst, but somehow filling the hollow ache of her undernourished belly, as if she were back in Camelot and had just devoured a three course meal.

Completely sated, she pillowed her head on one arm, suddenly so weary she simply couldn't find the strength to rise. A few minutes... just a short rest, and she'd be on her way again...

* * *

"Morgana?" a familiar voice murmured softly. "Morgana, wake up."

She moaned in protest, pulling a finely brocaded pillow over her eyes as the bright light of a flaming torch filled the chamber. _Her_ chamber... what on earth was Merlin doing in here in the middle of the night?

Merlin smiled a little sheepishly as she sat up and stared at him with a bewildered expression. "What...?"

"I'm sorry, but it couldn't wait," he apologized, politely averting his eyes while she reached for her dressing gown and pulled it around her skimpily clad body. "Uther commands your presence in the council chamber. Immediately."

Morgana felt a cold chill in the pit of her stomach as she stared, not at Merlin's face, but at the flickering torch in his hand. _Fire_... she had set her room on fire only a couple of nights before, and was still not quite certain how she'd done it. Magic, sorcery, there _had_ to be a connection... an unmistakable link that the king was obviously aware of now, too.

She trembled violently. Her throat suddenly tightened as unbidden, her eyes filled with tears that spilled over, wetting her cheeks as she shook her head in fierce denial.

"H-how does he know?" she stammered, barely even noticing when Gwen entered the room, disguising a sleepy yawn as she hurried over to the wardrobe and withdrew a green velvet gown. "Did Gaius tell him?"

"No," Merlin said softly. "I think... I think he figured it out for himself. But Morgana, it isn't..."

 _"You have to get me out of here!_ " she interrupted with a sudden cry of panic, leaping to her feet and snatching the gown out of Gwen's waiting hands, then hurrying behind the screen to dress. Despite the fact that she had a maidservant to help with such things, she accomplished the task with surprising swiftness, emerging to glance from one face to the other with desperate, pleading eyes.

"Please," she begged softly, a distinct note of hysteria in her voice. "Merlin... Gwen... please, say you'll help me. I don't want to die."

Gwen stepped closer, placing what was obviously meant to be a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Morgana, it isn't like that. The king has already made it clear that he has no intention of killing you. You don't have to be afraid."

Morgana let out by humorless laugh as she hastily wiped away a fresh onslaught of tears. "Well, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in the dungeons either!"

"He's not going to punish you," Merlin said quietly. "You have to trust us. Now please, we have to hurry."

She didn't know why she followed the pair of servants through the torch lit corridors, her heart thudding frantically in her chest as she fought down the urge to run headlong in the opposite direction. Was it the gentle reassurance in Merlin's eyes as he glanced back at her? Maybe the comforting smile on Gwen's face as the other woman reached out and squeezed her hand? Morgana wasn't sure,  but _something_ compelled her to keep moving forward.

Perhaps it was simply that she'd never been a coward, for she lifted her chin and met Uther's eyes with her own unwavering gaze as she passed through the doors of the council chamber.

His expression was unreadable as he studied her face. "Come closer."

Morgana stepped forward without hesitation.

"You have magic."

She flinched, but made no move to  deny it. Having heard that ironclad certainty in his voice many times in the past, she knew how useless it would be to pretend otherwise.

"The penalty for magic is death."

"Yes," she said softly.

Uther registered no emotion when he spoke again. "You have always disagreed with my policies concerning sorcery. Now, I understand why."

Morgana shook her head vehemently, anger suddenly boiling up in her chest as she responded. "I didn't even know... I didn't do it for my own sake!" she snapped, never flinching when evidence of his own temper suddenly flared in his eyes. "I protested because you were _wrong!_ Because you were punishing innocent people through hatred and ignorance! I fought it because..."

"Gaius seems to believe you were unaware of your powers until very recently," the king interrupted smoothly. "Is this true?"

"Yes! You can kill me if you like, Uther, but I didn't _choose_ to be this way! If I'd had a choice, I would have _never_... knowing what I'd face? Knowing how much you would despise me?"

He ignored her obvious need for reassurance. "Tell me," he said instead. "Tell me why you believe that those with magic should not be persecuted to the fullest extent of the law for their crimes?"

Somehow, Morgana sensed that this was a pivotal moment. She forced herself to swallow her anger, fought back the underlying fear that was causing her hands to shake, desperately searching her mind for the argument that would be the most logical, the most convincing, in getting through to a man as hard and unyielding as Uther.

"People with magic are not criminals," she said, looking deeply into his eyes as she spoke in a soft, appealing voice. "You may say we are dangerous simply because of the powers we have, whether we've used them to harm another person or not. But that is a grave injustice, when you equip your guards and all your loyal knights, with deadly weapons every day of their lives. Just as you reward the man who chooses honorable combat, and punish the one who uses his sword for senseless slaughter, it should be the same for those with magic. The punishment should fit the crime itself, not just the threat of it."

"It's not the same thing," Uther insisted stubbornly, though something wavered in his gaze as he suddenly avoided her eyes. "Sorcerers are corrupt by nature. They are _poisoned_ with magic. It is an infection, a disease that bleeds away any goodness in a person's soul, replacing it with nothing but hatred and lust for power."

Morgana cringed. She'd heard him say these hateful things a thousand times, but somehow, the fact that he could still voice them aloud when he knew she was one of those people he condemned made it infinitely more painful. And yet, she sensed a change in him... slow, reluctant, but there was some hint of uncertainty that stole the conviction from the beliefs he'd clung to so fiercely in the past.

Swallowing hard, she took a step closer to the throne and studied his face intently. He was staring at the floor, then examining the rings on his hands, anything to avoid her penetrating gaze. And suddenly, she realized that he appeared old, tired, somehow far more vulnerable than she could ever recall seeing him in the past.

"Look at me," she said softly.

He hesitated, but he did so, meeting her eyes directly across the short distance between them. Despite his numerous flaws, Uther had never been a coward either.

"Do you really believe I could ever be evil?" she whispered, coming closer still as he watched her. She reached out and took his hand, encouraged by the fact that he didn't pull away. "You know me, as well as if I were your own daughter. Do you think I would ever wish to cause any harm? Do you think I'm so weak that I'd allow myself to be corrupted, by magic, or anything else?"

Uther said nothing.

"Do you think I deserve to die for who I am? An innocent person you... you claim to _love?_ Is it your wish to watch as my head is severed from my body, or listen to my screams as I burn upon the pyre in agony? Or maybe it would my easier to order drowning in my case, where you wouldn't have to see or hear the evidence of my suffering? Like..."

_Like the children you executed._

The unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them. Uther stared at her with hollow eyes, suspiciously moist, as he let out a ragged sigh.

And in that moment, Morgana saw the truth.

How many years had it been since he'd realized deep in his heart that his relentless war against magic was wrong? How long ago had he ceased to be a man who truly believed himself to be championing a just cause, transforming into an unyielding tyrant who cleaved to his rigid policies simply because he couldn't bear to face the implications involved in surrendering to a more merciful approach?

Uther had never been able to admit he was being a little too harsh in his attack on magic. For if he had done so, it would have been no different than confessing that he condemned hundreds, perhaps thousands, of innocent people to death.

And Morgana realized, with a sharp stab of the deepest love she'd ever felt for him, that she was the only person who'd ever had the power to break through his seemingly impenetrable defenses. She saw it all as he stared back at her, his eyes naked and vulnerable, filled with tears and a heartbreaking combination of tenderness and the deepest remorse.

"Forgive me," he choked out on a ragged sob as he buried his face in his hands. "Forgive me, I didn't mean it..."

Somehow, he was in her arms, the powerful body of the man she'd always viewed as indestructible heaving violently as he wept against her shoulder. "Forgive me..."

"We'll make it right," she murmured in a soothing voice, reaching up with a gentle hand to stroke his coarse gray hair. "Don't worry, it's not too late."

That wasn't exactly true, and they both knew it. There was no way to recover the countless innocent lives that had been lost throughout those dark years of tyranny and shame. Deep wounds that had been inflicted by oppression might never fully heal, and it would take quite some time to overcome the prejudices Uther had instilled in his citizens, simple people who viewed sorcery with the deepest suspicion without understanding the reasons why.

But this night was a new beginning... the first whisperings of a far more hopeful future for people born with magic. After tonight, no person would ever have to fear harsh punishment for the power he or she possessed, as long as those gifts were not used for harmful purposes.

Tonight marked a brand new world for the kingdom of Camelot, particularly for the king who allowed his grief exhausted body to find solace in the comforting embrace of his loving ward.

And it was all thanks to the Lady Morgana, who, simply by being true to herself, had provided the catalyst that would lead to the salvation of countless innocent lives.

* * *

The journey hadn't been an easy one. Morgana had fallen asleep somehow, awakening with some vague memory of stopping to quench her thirst, though there didn't seem to be a source of water anywhere near where she lay.

She'd risen to her feet and pressed onward with a surprising burst of energy, and then _they_ had come upon her. Those creatures... those terrible, giant insects or whatever they had been, closing in around her as she had shivered in terror and prepared for certain death. She'd been wounded, an agonizing jolt of pain, and then she had felt the venom spreading through her body, dulling her senses, sapping her strength, stealing her life...

But when she came back to consciousness, it was with the overwhelming feeling that at long last, she had reached her destination. _She was home._

It was in his eyes when she awoke in the unfamiliar tent, cringing with the memory of her earlier fear before she recognized her rescuer. The Druid knelt beside her there, his dark skinned face reminding her of an oak tree as she studied the gentle strength and compassion that was so apparent in his features.

It was there when little Mordred joined them, sweetly eager as he offered to take care of her the way she had once taken care of him.

Later, it radiated through the humble little camp when she finally stepped out into the sunshine, a quiet sense of peace, acceptance, and belonging she'd never felt before, one that immediately overwhelmed her with a rush of gratitude for its very existence.

Morgana knew then that it didn't matter what  Uther might do if he ever became aware of her powers. It was irrelevant how many people he executed, what harsh decrees he put forth in his futile attempt to wipe magic from existence. He would _never_ succeed, nor would Arthur if he disappointed her hopes by following in his father's footsteps.

The message was unspoken, but clear:

"We are who we are. Nothing will ever change that."

These simple people recognized her for who and what she was. They were fully aware, not of her supposed crime, but of her gift, meeting that knowledge with a loving acceptance. That simple kindness wrapped around her soul, chasing away any feelings of emptiness, fear, and loneliness… emotions she hadn't even acknowledged to herself until she saw the truth reflected in their eyes.

She tried to do the same in return, telling them what was in her heart with a trembling smile, amazed when they seemed to understand exactly what she couldn't quite figure out how to say. They were beautiful to her beyond all imagining, and the ignorance of a petty, hateful king in some distant palace faded to nothing in the face of the intrinsic connection that only seemed to grow stronger as the hours passed.

Magic wasn't simply a collection of special abilities, she realized in that moment. It was a way of life, even a privilege allowing those who possessed it to feel more deeply connected with each other, and even with the earth itself, than those without it could possibly understand.

Yes… for the first time in her life, Morgana had found a place where she truly belonged.


	3. Mordred's Golden Kingdom

#  **Mordred's Golden Kingdom**

* * *

Deeply unconscious, the young knight didn't taste the cool water as it trickled down his throat, nor could he feel the comfort of the damp cloth as it bathed the sweat from his feverish brow. He never saw Merlin hovering over his prone body with a dripping canteen gripped tightly in one hand, remaining blissfully unaware of his own relieved sigh as he gradually relaxed into a deeper, more restful sleep.

But it was Merlin's face that appeared in his mind almost instantly when he surrendered to the world of dreams, and Mordred's heart filled with joy as he witnessed the pair of them standing side by side as equals... steadfast allies, just like he'd always hoped they'd be when the time came to acknowledge the truth of who they were.

"Arthur, I... _we_ have magic."

Twin pairs of blue eyes carefully watched the man who sat upon the throne, a lifetime of fear battling with the quiet faith that had convinced them both that _this_ was their moment; the fates had finally provided their long awaited chance to step out of the shadows and emerge into the light.

Had Mordred stood alone, he wasn't sure he'd have ever found the courage to open his mouth and say, "Sire, I am a sorcerer." But with Merlin beside him, his voice hadn't even faltered when he'd uttered the truth aloud.

After those first few months of cautious suspicion, Merlin had gradually let his guard down, eventually becoming the true and loyal friend Mordred had always wanted him to be. Secrecy had been an unfortunate necessity, but in their own subtle ways, they'd worked tirelessly to prove to the world that sorcery was not inherently evil... but it could just as easily be a force for good.

It had been a slow, often disheartening process; it seemed that for every positive example of magic they managed to bring to the king's attention, some heinous crime had come along to cancel out all of their careful progress. The mysterious illness Merlin had used to enchant the grain stores had been particularly clever, for it had appeared to have been caused by a natural parasite which couldn't possibly be traced back to magic. 

The bright red spots it had caused weren't harmful; nonetheless, the entire city had been overcome with gratitude toward the old woman who'd provided the cure... a rather saucy crone with uncannily familiar blue eyes.

Indeed, Merlin had an innate understanding of the man he served, for he'd known Arthur's antipathy toward magic wouldn't hold up for long against any serious threat to his vanity. It had only taken a few days of living with the ugly results of the pox himself for the king to agree to Gaius's timid suggestion that they seek the solution beyond the realm of traditional medicine.

There were similar examples – a feigned water shortage which had been resolved by Mordred masquerading as an unknown Druid, weaponry that had been salvaged from corrosion during an unusually wet season by a poultice left behind by a heavily cloaked figure who'd slipped away into the night before anyone could get a glimpse of his face. They were small incidents, but taken together, they'd been enough for the king to begin to believe that perhaps magic really was on his side... _sometimes_ , at least.

Meanwhile, however, Morgana seemed hellbent on proving the opposite. She was a constant thorn in their sides, leading Mordred to wonder how anyone could struggle so hard to prevent the very thing they claimed to desire above all else. He'd been downright baffled the first time Arthur had offered a helpful Druid a place to stay right there in the palace, a landmark occurrence, only for Morgana to frame the man for a poisoning he'd never committed.

"Why?" he'd questioned Merlin, after they'd helped the poor Druid make a narrow escape from the gallows. "When I knew her as a boy, all she seemed to want was freedom for our kind. Why would she make a point of trying to thwart any chance of that actually _happening?_ "

Merlin had given him a sad, almost pitying look in response. "Morgana cares nothing for justice anymore. All she wants is power. Don't you see? Arthur becoming more accepting of magic users works _against_ her purposes now. Her one advantage is in being able to promise that freedom where Arthur will not. If he does... _when_ he does, what will she have left?"

Despite all her tireless efforts to stand in their way of their goal, however, it had been Morgana who'd unwittingly provided the means to achieve it. She'd made a grave error in judgment when she'd chosen to lash out at the queen, for Arthur had been willing to swear to anything in order to save the life of the woman he loved. And flawed and human as he might be, Arthur Pendragon was a man of his word.

Mordred had held his breath as Merlin, this time under the guise of a middle-aged sorcerer with a pot belly and a receding hairline, had looked up from the Guinevere's badly injured body and spoken the fateful words:

"Yes, sire, I can heal her. I only ask for your promise in return."

"What is it you want? Tell me, and it is yours."

"I want you to swear that my kind will no longer have to live in fear of persecution. I only wish for magic users to be granted the same rights and freedoms as ordinary citizens who never have to fear imprisonment or execution if they have not committed a crime. Promise me now – magic will never again be a cause for punishment, unless it is used to harm others."

Arthur had hesitated, clearly battling the internal conflict between his father's deeply ingrained prejudice and his own gradually changing views. "I... I admit magic isn't quite as bad as I once believed, but it _is_ still a threat to the kingdom more often than not. I..."

"Whatever your answer is, sire, you must give it to me quickly. Your queen is fading fast."

There couldn't have been a more perfect time for Guinevere to begin writhing in pain, never a more fortuitous opportunity for an anguished wail to escape her fever blistered lips. It wasn't that Mordred wished the least amount of misfortune upon the poor woman, but her temporary misery not only led to her own salvation, but a far more hopeful future for countless others as well. For it was her helpless expression of suffering that forced Arthur to make a final decision, bringing them all to a moment which had been decades in the making.

"I promise. Please, just help her, and you can have _anything_."

No more than an hour later, the queen had lain in peaceful slumber, free from the deep wounds that would've surely resulted in her death without the intervention of magic. After disappearing for a few minutes to restore himself to his usual appearance, Merlin had returned faithfully to his king's side with a nervous, yet hopeful expression on his face. For once, however, Arthur hadn't even wanted the company of his trusted servant; he'd dismissed Merlin rather curtly, remaining at Guinevere's side throughout the night in solitary vigil.

There'd been no way to determine Arthur's thoughts in the immediate aftermath, nor did he ever speak of the incident after the queen had fully recovered. But change was in the air nonetheless, beginning with the harsh chastisement of a bewildered Percival when the knight had arrested a woman he'd spotted conjuring a cook fire by magic.

Several months later, Druids had begun traveling openly to Camelot to replenish their supplies, meeting no resistance, not even glances of suspicion along the way. And just a few days before, a sorcerer had dared to perform a rather impressive series of incantations right on the steps of the palace, amazing the passersby with a glittering show of tiny dragons that fluttered around their heads, then soared up to reach the open windows of the chambers above.

Arthur had stared at the first one with a great deal of mistrust as it had alighted on his shoulder... but then the shimmering creature had lowered its head submissively, peering up at him from beneath one wing with a shyly twinkling eye.

And Arthur had _laughed_. 

The most surprising part of all had been the _lack of surprise_ from the court when he'd requested the sorcerer's presence at last night's banquet, offering him a generous sum of gold in exchange for an hour or two of entertainment. It had been when the king's gaze was transfixed on a conjured vision of dancing bears that Merlin had leaned over and whispered in Mordred's ear:

"I think it's time. We'll tell him tomorrow morning... although if he thinks I'm going to be performing like a court jester every night, he's seriously mistaken."

Mordred felt curiously light as they stood before the king; at first, he couldn't quite identify the cause. But then it came to him in a flash – the heavy mantle of fear which had lain upon his shoulders for a lifetime was finally gone, replaced by the featherlight cloak of absolute trust. Because he _knew_... Merlin might have been willing to make a gamble if it had only been his own fate hanging in the balance, but he would _never_ subject a friend to unnecessary danger. 

No, acceptance was the only possible outcome. Mordred understood that, even before Arthur let out a heavy sigh and reluctantly nodded his head.

It wasn't easy at first; years of subterfuge and lies naturally created a great deal of hurt feelings where Arthur was concerned. But ever so slowly, he began to acknowledge the necessity of having remained quiet for so long... and even more gradually, Merlin and Mordred were given the freedom to settle into new and much more appropriate positions within the court. Following that, if Merlin's juggling acts became a monthly, and then a weekly occurrence, did it really matter? Both men were by far the happiest they had ever been.

But the greatest moment of triumph was yet to come...

The ability to use magic freely and openly in defense of the kingdom ultimately spelled Morgana's defeat, for she simply didn't possess the strength to meet the powerful alliance of Druids and sorcerers who gathered together at Arthur's behest to face her tyranny. With Merlin and Arthur commanding each of their forces, they'd met her on a mighty plain called Camlann, knight and sorcerer standing shoulder to shoulder in the cause of justice, freedom, and love.

There came a moment when only two opponents stood on the field, scores of others held at bay as they waited with breathless anticipation for the final outcome. Merlin lifted the sword, not his own, but Arthur's legendary blade Excalibur, seeming just on the brink of delivering the death blow.

But then he changed his mind, slowly shaking his head as he lowered the sword to his side. He lifted his hand, that hand which possessed far more power than any weapon, whether forged in the Dragon's breath or not, and a softly uttered incantation escaped his parted lips, growing stronger with every word even as the crumpled figure on the ground seemed to shrink beneath the weight of the spell.

Morgana cried out in anguish, a helpless, gut wrenching denial, but it was too late. Her life was spared, but the gift of magic she'd possessed and chosen to abuse was gone forever.

Perhaps in time she might find her own sort of peace? Mordred hoped so, if for no other reason than to honor a faint memory of a kind young woman who had once saved his life. Could there be a chance she might find that part of herself again in some small way, now that the means to devote herself to a lifetime of fury and revenge were no longer within her reach?

His fleeting wish briefly grew more solid as Merlin extended his hand once more, not in a defensive gesture, but with the simple human courtesy of offering to help Morgana to her feet. 

The former priestess snarled, spitting in his general direction as she cringed away from his touch. Well, perhaps with time, the wounds would begin to heal. Maybe it was just too soon.

Mordred turned his face to Arthur then, tears springing to his eyes as he realized the man he served had never looked more like a _king_ than he did in that moment. For he didn't wear the triumphant expression of a warrior who had beaten his enemies into submission. No, not Arthur... his features were soft and full of compassion as he stepped forward to speak to his sister in a voice that was far more gentle than she deserved:

"Morgana, I forgive you. I hope one day you can do the same."

* * *

Sunlight was pouring through the window when Mordred awoke, warm and soothing as he sat up on the narrow bed and gingerly pressed his fingers to the wound in his shoulder. To his surprise, it was very nearly healed; only a patch of rough skin could be found in place of what had previously been a deep, angry gash that had caused him an unbelievable amount of pain in the brief moments he'd been conscious enough to feel it.

Nothing hurt now; in fact, Mordred couldn't recall a time when he'd felt so _good_... strong, energetic... **alive**.

Memories came back to him as he reached for his clothes, and he briefly felt a little disheartened when he recalled the scene in the cave... much in the way he usually did when Arthur showed how deeply he distrusted magic. But stronger than that disappointment was Mordred's faith, for _one day_... one day, he _knew_ Arthur would be ready to accept his kind. It simply wasn't fathomable to the young knight that _anyone_ who was capable of so much love, such a strong sense of justice, wouldn't ultimately triumph over the prejudices that had been drilled into him since birth.

Mordred had seen the beginning of that many years ago, when a kind prince had defied his father in order to return an orphaned Druid boy to his people. And someday, he knew, the king that man had grown to become would defy his father again, returning the kingdom to the way it was always meant to be. 

With that thought in mind, he hurried down the palace steps and into Arthur's waiting embrace.


	4. Mithian's Hopeful Future

#  **Mithian's Hopeful Future**

* * *

Princess Mithian had expected to leave Camelot with negotiations for her impending marriage settled, a politically advantageous union made solely for the benefit of her kingdom.

At best, she'd hoped King Arthur would be a pleasant sort of fellow, an ideal friend and companion she might even grow to care for in the future. At worst, she'd feared he'd turn out to be a miserable husband she'd have to grit her teeth and tolerate for the rest of her life.

But she'd never expected to find herself unceremoniously rejected by a man she'd genuinely _wanted_ to marry... not out of any sense of obligation, but because she could easily see herself falling in love with him.

It was a cruel twist of fate; all her life, Mithian had resigned herself to the necessity of sacrificing dreams of romance so she might base her choice of husband solely on practical matters. But realizing a man existed who could've satisfied _both_ those options, only to have him snatched away without warning...

It was almost too painful to bear.

Mithian patted her veil to make sure it was securely in place before allowing an onslaught of tears to flow freely down her cheeks. She didn't want to alert her small party of attendants to the fact that she was weeping – it went against her nature to show even a flicker of weakness in front of those who depended on her for wisdom and guidance.

"Let us make camp just ahead!" she called out a few minutes later, relieved that she somehow managed to keep her voice steady.

When they reached the secluded glade, she was forced to sit idle as the others scurried about feeding horses, building a fire, laying out bed rolls, and preparing a light supper. Ordinarily she attempted to help them, occasionally even insisting upon it despite their scandalized protests. At the moment, however, she was simply too drained to battle through their numerous objections. 

She carefully arranged her skirts and seated herself on a comfortable looking patch of grass, closing her eyes in the hope that the peaceful sounds of the forest would overtake her senses and soothe her troubled thoughts.

The wind whispered gently through the trees overhead, but fainter still, she detected a sort of bubbling noise in the distance. It wasn't the stream where her knights were splashing their faces with water to wash away the dust of the long day's ride. No, these sounds came from the opposite direction, seeming to emerge from a thicket of wild roses that lay some fifty paces away.

Mithian rose to her feet, her smooth brow furrowing in curiosity as she stepped away from the others. She could feel them watching her, but naturally assuming she was merely seeking privacy to answer a call of nature, no one offered any protest as she disappeared into the tangle of vegetation.

Her eyes fell upon a lovely little spring, with crystal clear water that was rippling gently over a bed of smooth stones of various hues. Mithian knelt down and trailed her fingertips across the surface of the pool, letting out a soft sound of pleasure as she did so. The water was the perfect temperature – cool enough to rejuvenate her senses, yet not so chilly that it caused her any discomfort.

Abruptly, she ducked her head out of the thicket. "I am not to be disturbed," she called out in a firm, unyielding voice. "I intend to bathe."

"M-my lady?"

"There's a spring here just behind me. I'd like to wash."

If her attendants said anything in response, Mithian never heard them. She was already peeling away the needlessly heavy layers of clothing she wore, taking a moment to relish the sensation of the mild breeze as it caressed her bare skin before sinking down into a sitting position in the shallow depths of the pool. It occurred to her that she should've brought along some soap; she opened her mouth to summon one of her attendants, only to close it again with the realization that it wasn't necessary. She'd never felt so clean or refreshed in her life.

Yes, this was the moment of peace she'd desperately needed; Mithian leaned her head back against a soft growth of ferns, her eyes drifting closed as she absently licked a few droplets of water from her lips.

* * *

Camelot looked exactly the same as it had the last time she'd visited, though the purpose for this journey certainly wasn't the same as her first. There was no possibility of a marriage alliance looming before her, only negotiations she'd arranged in the hope of providing Nemeth with additional protection during these far too troubled times.

Then again, perhaps it _wasn't_ so different; it seemed that Princess Mithian only made her way to Camelot when she found herself in need of a man... or _men_ , in this case.

The thought made her giggle as she and her attendants rode into the courtyard. That was encouraging after spending many nights worrying that her visit would be awkward, even upsetting after King Arthur's rejection the year before. Surely the fact that she still had a sense of humor about the whole debacle had to be a good sign... right?

A red cloaked knight hurried down the palace steps to help her down from her horse, his large, sword callused hands surprisingly gentle as they encircled her waist. She looked up at him in surprise, then smiled as soon as she realized that she still remembered his name.

"Thank you, Sir Leon," she said sweetly.

The knight looked stunned. "Princess Mithian, you... you remem... what I mean is, allow me to escort you inside. You must be weary from your journey."

As it turned out, King Arthur had assigned her to the same quarters she'd used on her previous visit. It struck Mithian that it was perhaps a little insensitive of him to obligate her to face any reminders that weren't strictly necessary, but then she had to stop and laugh at herself. Arthur might have a lot of positive qualities, but being in tune with other people's emotions wasn't one of them. Just look at the way he treated his servant; for all that he relied on Merlin in a multitude of ways, he certainly didn't shrink from throwing hurtful insults and a lot of unnecessary work in the poor man's direction either.

Nonetheless, Arthur could never be criticized for his compassion and sense of justice when it came to matters of politics. The negotiations Mithian had worried over to excess were resolved quickly, with a heartfelt promise of assistance and an invitation to attend a banquet that night that the king had decided to hold in her honor.

Mithian felt uncharitable for the direction of her thoughts, but when she finally had a glimpse of the men side by side, she couldn't help comparing Arthur to Sir Leon. They both had golden hair, but Leon's was of a darker, warmer shade... as if she were looking at honey compared to a sheaf of wheat. Arthur _did_ have nice eyes, a pleasant shade of blue that reminded Mithian of cornflowers. But Leon's were more like a stormy sea... one couldn't even distinguish the exact color more often than not, but it was an endless temptation to continue staring until the mystery was solved.

 _Lord, I'm attracted to Sir Leon!_ Mithian realized in self-conscious amazement. It wasn't something she'd encountered on her last journey, having been too focused on trying to make things work with Arthur to take much notice of anyone else. But now... how could she have failed to recognize how handsome he was, not to mention considerate and brave and a host of other things she found immensely appealing?

Even more to her astonishment, the feeling seemed to be mutual. She could feel his eyes following her around the room throughout the evening, despite his efforts to quickly avert his gaze whenever she made it clear that she was aware of his attention. It was blatantly obvious to her now; how long had he felt this way?

When the celebrations began to dwindle down, Leon bid the king and his fellow knights a good evening, slipping unobtrusively from the hall. Mithian followed in his footsteps, emboldened by a night full of tender looks the obviously shy knight had struggled desperately to hide.

"Princess Mithian?" Leon murmured in surprise when he turned in the deserted corridor to find her standing behind him. "Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?"

She gathered her courage, then smiled. "Yes, Sir Leon. You can kiss me."

For all his careful courtesies and quiet nature, Leon never hesitated as he reached out and pulled her in his arms. His kisses were sweet, gentle, flavored with the pleasant tang of the mead he'd been enjoying only a few minutes before. Mithian sighed in contentment as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, wondering how anything could have ever blinded her to such a worthy man.

And even though she _could_ have compared Leon's tenderly passionate kisses to the few awkward brushes she'd exchanged with Arthur, it never occurred to her to do so.

* * *

"Princess Mithian!"

 _Why are they shouting like that?_ she wondered groggily. _It's the middle of the night!_

"My lady? Please, alert us to your presence if you can hear me!"

Her eyes reluctantly opened, blinking in confusion as she studied her surroundings. It was almost too dark to see; only the soft light of a crescent moon outlined the fragrant canopy of wild roses above her head. Mithian frowned, trying to remember... water, something about water. She'd wandered off to have a drink, or perhaps to answer a call of nature. Had she fallen asleep out here by herself?

Well, obviously she had, but why? Had she really been _that_ tired?

"I'm here," she called out in a sleepy voice.

Landry, the youngest and most impetuous of her knights, came stumbling through the bushes, his dark eyes wide with panic. "My lady! Have you been injured? Are you all right? Bless my soul, we thought we'd lost you!"

Mithian extended a hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. "I do apologize. I just... I wanted a few minutes to myself, and I must have fallen asleep. I'm so sorry to have caused any worry. Come, let us return to camp and let the others know I'm safe."

"As you say, my lady." He looked relieved as he offered her his arm. "My lady?"

"Yes, Sir Landry?"

"Forgive me for saying so, but King Arthur was a fool to... to have..."

Mithian knew she should reprimand the young knight for being so disrespectful, but hearing the sincerity in his words, she simply didn't have the heart to do so. "It's for the best," she replied, surprised to discover she actually meant the words as she spoke. "Do you think I could've ever been content with being someone's second choice?"

"No, my lady."

She smiled in the darkness as it occurred to her that her journey to Camelot had indeed been successful, though not in the way she'd originally planned. King Arthur might not have chosen to become her husband, but the sense of justice she'd admired in him guaranteed that Camelot would never turn its back on Nemeth in times of need. Really, was the temporary pain of disappointed hopes so bad? Momentary humiliation had resulted in the strongest alliance she could have possibly made on behalf of her kingdom.

With that in mind, Mithian suddenly realized something else, an unspoken truth that prompted a joyous laugh as she rejoined the others. In choosing to remain loyal to his own heart, King Arthur had unknowingly granted her the freedom to follow her own.


	5. Lancelot's Shattered Dream

#  **Lancelot's Shattered Dream**

* * *

_This is exactly what I wanted for her,_ Lancelot was forced to remind himself at least a dozen times a day. _I'm the one who decided to leave, to give her a chance for a better life._

He _had_ to remember that in order to swallow the terrible jealousy that twisted his stomach in knots whenever Arthur and Gwen exchanged a tender look, a loving touch, or worse...

It was maddening; what right did _he_ have to resent the affection the couple shared with one another? He'd willingly stepped aside – how was it fair to begrudge them the relationship he'd consciously permitted to happen? Why should he feel angry or bitter, envious or even a little betrayed whenever he saw them together, having long since relinquished any claim which would've given him justification for reacting in such a manner?

And yet his quiet jealousy continued to torment him, a constant, painful reality he struggled desperately to keep hidden from the world. It hit him hardest late at night, unable to lose himself in slumber as he lay in the dim silence of his bedchamber, hollow and aching with need. The pain remained with him every time he touched himself in the hope of finding a little relief, always a mournful edge to the otherwise blissful aftermath of release. Deep down, he knew he was doomed to suffer these moments in solitude for the rest of his life.

Could he have been happy with a different woman? Lancelot didn't know; Gwen had effectively ruined him in that respect, destroying any possibility he'd ever find himself capable of loving anyone else. He'd occasionally been tempted by the idea of finding someone to share his bed, but it never progressed beyond an idle thought. No matter how lonely he might've been, he simply wasn't the kind of man who was willing to accept the comfort of physical pleasure when he had so little to offer in return.

No, if he couldn't have the one person he truly wanted, solitude was the only other choice. The thought of hurting anyone else as a result of his constant inner turmoil was unbearable – far better to cope with it on his own.

And so he tried to ignore his pain, burying it somewhere deep inside unless no one else was around to witness his fury, his sadness, even the occasional tears he wept upon some new realization of just how much he'd lost when he'd chosen to walk away from Gwen. It wouldn't be fair to inflict those feelings upon other people, especially since the anger he felt was directed solely at himself.

Lancelot didn't fault Arthur or Gwen for his suffering, nor had he ever been upset with Merlin for allowing him to give up so easily all those years before. He was only hopelessly distraught over the fact that he'd done it in the first place, because in the end, it had been his choice and his alone which had prompted such an enormous sacrifice.

After countless lonely nights, it ceased to matter whether he'd done the right thing on Gwen's behalf, nor how much guilt he might have had to live with if he'd elected not to give her the chance he'd felt she deserved. All that mattered was that he'd made a decision which had robbed him of the love of his life, and the full realization of that hurt far too deeply to be reconciled with the logical conclusions which had led to that choice.

Nonetheless, he was able to live with it somehow, managing to go about his usual routine as if nothing were amiss, smiling and laughing as if he didn't have a care in the world, no matter how much he might be hurting on the inside. 

... until the day it all fell apart.

His careful composure was shattered on the morning he was unfortunate enough to stumble across Arthur and Gwen hidden away in one of the unused guest chambers, locked in a passionate and very naked embrace. Once he regained the ability to move, there was nothing to do but flee, the full impact of what he'd seen making his stomach churn with nausea as he threw himself on his horse and rode out of Camelot at a frenzied gallop. 

He needed to escape, to find some reprieve from the sweet temptation of Gwen's bare breasts, forever sullied by the memory of Arthur's mouth closed firmly around one nipple, her head thrown back in blissful surrender as she'd whimpered aloud and threaded her fingers through his golden hair. No, he didn't want to think about Arthur's hand slipping between those lovely thighs, nor the distinctly masculine groan that had caused him to burn with jealousy as the other man touched her in places that Lancelot himself had never been lucky enough to experience.

 _My own fault,_ he thought dismally, a monotonous chant in the back of his mind as the trees flew by in either direction. _My own fault._

The worst part was that despite his emotional distress, he was as hard as a rock after having witnessed Gwen in the throes of pleasure, and it was all too clear that the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers wasn't going to ease up anytime soon without further assistance. He didn't want to touch himself, not so soon after what he'd seen, but he needed to do _something_ to find a little relief.

What had Arthur felt as he'd explored that secret place? Warmth... softness... had she needed a little extra stimulation first, or had he discovered that she was already fully aroused, his fingers sliding easily into... _bloody hell, stop it!_

Quite sure he was on the brink of madness, Lancelot slowed his horse, his breathing shaky and uneven as he searched for the nearest body of water. It didn't bother him that it was the dead of winter; a chilly lake or a half frozen river was exactly what was needed at this point. He studied the unfamiliar terrain, surprised when his ears almost instantly picked up on the soft sound of rippling water which seemed to be coming from a small cluster of trees to his left.

He was disappointed to find that the pool was much smaller than he would've preferred, only about twice the size of the wooden tubs in which he was accustomed to bathing in back in Camelot. There was no room for the vigorous swim he desperately needed, only enough perhaps to wade around in the shallow depths.

Not sure why he didn't move on and try to find a more suitable place, he stripped off his clothing and lowered his body into the surprisingly warm water, discovering that it did absolutely nothing to diminish his painful arousal. Despite that, however, he felt a bit better as he washed the sweat and grime from his face, soothed as the worst of his tension melted away. He leaned his head back on a soft pile of moss, closing his eyes and sighing in relief as the peaceful atmosphere of the forest worked its magic upon his troubled mind.

 _Sleep, Lancelot_ , the trees themselves seemed to whisper, as their leaves were rustled by a gentle breeze. _Sleep..._

* * *

Gwen held his eyes as she unfastened the ties of her simple dressing gown, allowing it to fall in a puddle at her feet as she revealed herself to his enraptured gaze. Allowing him a moment to devour the sight of her naked body, she ducked her head self-consciously, yet made no move to cover herself as her cheeks turned pink in a lovely combination of shyness and pleasure.

"Come here," he whispered huskily, extending a hand to steady her as she stepped carefully into the warm bath.

It was the one luxury he'd insisted upon in their otherwise simple home – a large tub that could comfortably fit the pair of them. Despite the expense, however, and the hard labor required to actually fill the thing to any reasonable depth, he considered it well worth the trouble... particularly since Merlin had gifted him with a charm which kept the bath warm for hours on end.

Gwen shook her head in mock exasperation as she lowered herself into the water, chuckling in response to the unmistakable hunger in Lancelot's eyes as he reached out and pulled her back against his chest.

"Are we even going to pretend to take a respectable bath before..." she scooted a little closer, trailing off as his obvious erection pressed rather insistently against the small of her back. Unable to help himself, Lancelot groaned aloud as he moved her curls aside to nibble at the sensitive contours of her ear.

"I think not," he breathed softly, pleased to feel her shudder in response. "Unless that is what you'd prefer, of course."

He felt her shake with silent laughter. "And what would you do if I said yes? Would you really behave yourself in your current condition?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed distractedly, following a trickle of water along her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. "Whatever pleases you, my lady. Anything you want."

"Lancelot, do you even know what we're talking about anymore?"

He shook his head, moving upward to press his lips to the soft column of her throat as he mumbled against her skin. "Don't need to."

"I'm tempted to call your bluff," she started, pausing to emit a low moan of pleasure as his hands reached around to touch her breasts, his callused thumbs brushing lightly across her nipples. "But I think I'll save that for another night."

Lancelot chuckled softly. "You said that last time."

And then he tilted her head back for a deep, lingering kiss as his other hand glided down her wet stomach and came to rest between her legs. He'd known exactly what she was referring to... just as he'd been certain she had no intention of stopping him anytime soon. He would've done so without question, of course, but there was a great deal of relief in knowing he didn't have to.

They were both trembling with need by the time they crawled out of the tub a little while later. Gwen had been brought to satisfaction several times over by then, all wild curls and heavy lidded eyes as she lay down on the bed and shamelessly parted her thighs, opening herself to his hungry gaze. He desperately wanted to bury his face between them and taste her sweetness, but he was too far gone to hope to do the job properly without losing what little remained of his control. It had always been a particular weakness of his, feeling her writhing beneath him, moaning and shaking in helpless abandon as he pleasured her with his mouth.

Instead, he satisfied himself with one long, lingering lick before moving upward, raining a trail of hot kisses all the way up to her breasts before pausing for a moment to brush his lips across a taut nipple. He never had the chance to draw it more fully into his mouth, however, as she tugged insistently at his shoulders, wriggling impatiently beneath him with a petulant demand of, "Now, Lancelot. Please..."

Never one to deny Gwen anything she wanted, he immediately settled himself between her thighs as his lips connected hungrily with hers, swallowing her gasp of pleasure as he reached down to make a swift adjustment, then buried himself deep inside her with one sharp thrust. He rose up on his elbows, staring down at her with fire in his eyes as his hips began to move, rising and falling with an urgency that took him by surprise as beads of sweat mingled with droplets of water on his damp skin.

He nearly always kept his pace slow and gentle in the beginning, taking the time to prolong her pleasure for as long as possible before gradually building to the inevitable conclusion. But this time there wasn't room for anything tender or romantic; his senses were dominated by an almost savage need for possession as he rode her fast and hard, driving into her again and again as he gave voice to his swiftly approaching release in a rapid succession of hoarse pants and ragged groans.

She met him thrust for frenzied thrust, wrapping her legs around his waist and pressing her heels into his backside to urge him deeper as her wordless cries of passion echoed off the walls of the tiny bedchamber.

"Now," he managed to rasp out, feeling himself on the brink of losing control and not wanting to leave her behind. "For me."

And then her fingernails were digging into his shoulders, her back arching as she pulsed and shuddered around him, moaning his name as her head fell heavily against the pillows. A couple more powerful thrusts was all it took before he followed, whimpering helplessly against her sweaty neck as he spent himself in wave after wave of blinding hot pleasure.

It seemed that the more violent their lovemaking was, the more tender Lancelot inevitably felt in the aftermath. After taking a few minutes to recover a bit of strength, he shifted to his side so that he was lying face to face with Gwen, gently brushing the damp curls away from her forehead as they exchanged a series of soft, lazy kisses in between wordless murmurs and sleepy smiles. Neither of them voiced their thoughts aloud; the intimacy between them just then went so much deeper than words could possibly express.

It didn't take long for her eyes to drift closed, the corners of her lovely mouth still turned up in a slight smile as she nestled her head against his chest. Lancelot felt his eyelids growing heavy, exhausted and utterly drained, yet quite certain he'd never felt more deeply contented in his life than he did in that moment.

* * *

Lancelot awoke with a start, taking in several important details in rapid succession. First, he was in the middle of the forest with only the vaguest recollection of how he'd come to be there. Second, he was lying on the ground stark naked. And third, it was bloody _cold._

These realizations were immediately followed by another that was equally disconcerting as he sat up and reached for the clothing that was thankfully piled right beside him. He'd done _something_ in his sleep... something that made his face turn red in embarrassment as he hastily sought to wipe away the evidence. What on earth had happened to him?

And then it came rushing back... riding away from Camelot as if demons were at his heels, seeking a place where he might take a swim and relieve his distress. What happened after that was a little hazy, but he faintly remembered removing his clothes, then resting his head against the bed of moss that lay behind him on the otherwise unlittered ground. He must've fallen asleep at some point without meaning to do so, a thought that was a little disturbing considering that he normally took great pains to ensure that he was never caught off guard.

But the forest was silent as he pulled on his boots and rose to his feet, no sign of life aside from the familiar horse who stood some distance away, munching placidly on a bed of dried grass.

Before climbing back in the saddle to return home, he took a minute to recall the event which had driven him away in the first place – witnessing the extremely private encounter between Arthur and Gwen, who'd been too wrapped up in one another to notice his presence. 

Oddly enough, the sharp stab of pain he'd felt earlier had been reduced to nothing more than an uncomfortable twinge that was fairly easy to ignore. Stranger still, he felt more relaxed than he had in months, calm and significantly more focused than he'd come to expect since he'd been forced to live with the reality of Gwen being in love with someone else.

Without being able to think of anything else that might explain the feeling of relief, he could only assume that he'd simply needed a little time away from Camelot to clear his head, reminding himself to indulge in solitary rides a little more often in the future. After months of being trapped in close confines, it was no wonder his emotions had spiraled out of control the way they had.

He smiled as the towers of the Citadel came into sight, picturing the familiar faces of the people he loved as he remembered why he'd come to the city in the first place. His life was about so much more than disappointed hopes, no matter how much that loss might still wound him at times. There was still justice, truth, honor, and loyalty in the world, causes he held close to his heart in perfect harmony with his lingering feelings for Gwen. Yes, perhaps one dream was lost forever... but the other was still well within his reach, bright and full of promise, just waiting to be fulfilled.

Lancelot was many things, but above all, he was a Knight of Camelot. If he were unable to give all of himself to one woman, then he would devote it in service to that which he loved second best – the beautiful kingdom he knew to be the only place in the world where he truly belonged.


	6. Arthur's Quiet Uncertainty

#  **Arthur's Quiet Uncertainty**

* * *

Arthur hated birthdays.

Oh, he enjoyed the attention and the gifts. The feasts weren't half bad either. If he could just focus on those things and ignore the rest of it, turning another year older might actually be a happy occasion.

Unfortunately, he was never allowed to forget that his birthday was also the anniversary of his mother's death.

It was the same every year. King Uther would make a valiant effort to behave cheerfully, and indeed, some of it may have even been genuine. But there was always a heavy sadness in his eyes throughout the day, a wistful, faraway expression that dominated his features whenever he thought no one else was paying attention. He never spoke of Ygraine, but she was there until the sun rose the next morning, her presence invisible, yet strong enough to overpower all of the feasting and laughing and silly games that went on until dawn.

Sometimes Arthur thought it might be better if his father stopped hiding and simply acknowledged his grief. Perhaps if he were willing to talk about it, to share the good memories as well as the bad, there might be some sort of healing in the experience.

But it would never happen; Arthur had known that on the day he'd turned 17, when he'd tentatively asked Uther what type of desserts his mother had preferred during special occasions. All the color had drained from the older man's face as he'd ordered his son never to mention such a thing again.

And as with most things, Arthur had obeyed without question.

The day he turned 21, he rose early and decided to sneak out of the city for an early morning ride. It took quite a bit of maneuvering – ditching the guards wasn't difficult, of course, but getting away from the new manservant his father had recently hired on his behalf made for an unanticipated challenge. For all that the boy was a bumbling idiot, he was surprisingly attentive.

It felt good to be alone as he rode down the familiar pathways that crisscrossed through the Darkling Wood – solitude was a rare luxury for a prince, particularly one who was as overprotected as Arthur Pendragon happened to be. He breathed deeply of the fresh morning air, closing his eyes and relishing the feeling of warm sunshine on his face as he emerged into a tiny meadow.

It was one of his favorite places in the world, for no other reason than it was the location where he'd taken down his first kill worth being proud of – a fine buck which had prompted his father to hold a grand feast in his son's honor. "Arthur is a man today!" he'd boldly proclaimed, raising his jeweled goblet high in the air to make the first toast. It hadn't mattered that he couldn't have been more than 10 years old at the time – it remained one of the happiest memories of his life.

Arthur dismounted and tethered his horse to a nearby tree before he hesitated, not sure what to do with himself now that he'd reached his destination. He was accustomed to spending a great deal of time in the forest, of course, but never without a specific purpose such as a hunting trip or a routine patrol.

Sit. Yes, that's what he would do. He'd sit down and close his eyes, enjoy the morning sunlight and the light fragrance of wildflowers and just be Arthur for a little while. Not _Prince_ Arthur, commander of troops, future king, gracious host, whatever else the world required him to be. He'd just be himself.

No more than a couple minutes had passed before his eyes flew open in consternation. _Himself?_ He wasn't even sure who that was. What he was supposed to be, what everyone expected of him, yes... that was plain enough. But who was he, exactly, when there was no need to participate in any number of the roles which were required of his station?

 _I enjoy hunting,_ he assured himself. _A friendly wager can be fun sometimes, and a bit of hard practice is certainly enjoyable. I like roasted boar and strawberry tarts, a good flagon of mead or a great joke. I like girls... yes, quite a bit._

But there were so many missing pieces, parts of himself he didn't quite recognize or fully understand. It had always been this way; perhaps that was why he'd longed to learn more about his mother over the years. He had some things in common with his father, but there were so many more qualities in his character that he couldn't link back to King Uther at all. Were these traits he'd inherited from his mother? Was she the reason his hair was a lighter shade of gold than his father's had ever been... or why he loved stewed beets, while the older man found them repulsive?

Or maybe some of these things belonged to other members of her side of the family; Arthur had met his uncle when he'd been small, too young to remember anything other than a tall, imposing man dressed from head to toe in black. Would he find parts of himself in that man, if Uther would permit him to visit again?

Arthur's thoughts trailed off upon the realization that he was more than a little thirsty. Why hadn't he brought along a waterskin?

... because servants usually took care of that sort of thing. Of course.

Sighing heavily, he got to his feet, resigned to the necessity of having to leave his private sanctuary to see to the needs of his body. He was a little hungry, too, come to think of it. Some beans and bacon might be...

And then he frowned as he heard a soft trickle of water emerging from a nearby thicket. He didn't remember there being any water sources in the immediate area, but it seemed he'd managed to miss the tiny spring he saw as he parted the leafy branches. It was lovely, water shimmering with iridescent prisms of color as it flowed gently over a precipice that couldn't have been any higher than his waist, creating a miniature waterfall that poured into the crystal clear pool just below.

Arthur knelt down and cupped his hands, bringing the deliciously cold liquid to his mouth once, twice, several times, before leaning back against the trunk of a solid oak and closing his eyes as he let out a sigh of appreciation.

* * *

Queen Ygraine smiled graciously as she extended one bejeweled hand to the prostrate man at her feet. "You may rise, Lord Banik. We bid you welcome."

Beside her stood her husband, stern faced and regal as they greeted the seemingly endless procession of knights, courtiers, and other members of the nobility who had come to pay tribute to Prince Arthur on the happy occasion of his birthday. The guest of honor himself nodded respectfully and exchanged pleasant words with each newcomer, though his mother couldn't help catching his eye and smirking in his direction, knowing all too well how tedious he found all the pomp and circumstance.

Arthur smiled back at her, taking a great deal of comfort in knowing she understood his boredom and didn't think any less of him for it. King Uther expected high standards from his only son, constant training and grooming and lecturing, all for the purpose of preparing him for the kingship he was destined to inherit.

But Ygraine was different. In a tightly confined world that came with increasing pressure and responsibility as Arthur grew into a man, she was his only escape, a breath of fresh air amidst the stifling environment of court life. To her, he was simply her child... but it was something more than that. Being such similar creatures in nature, life was inherently simple for them both. A nice conversation… They appreciated the little things, far more than the politics and complexities that were so rampant at the heart of their powerful kingdom.

King Uther would sternly instruct his son on countless codes and proper protocol; Queen Ygraine would only say, "Follow your heart, Arthur, in every way. If you can do that, you will rule with more justice and compassion than any king has ever done."

That made sense... so much more than silly little laws as to why commoners couldn't try out for the knighthood, or the intricacies involved in arranging the most effective political marriage.

Sometimes, she took it upon herself to share all of the qualities she believed he'd inherited from various family members. Her own gentle heart, Tristan's impetuous nature, Agravaine's steadfast loyalty, particularly to the women he considered most important in his life. And yes, King Uther as well. From his father came his strength, she claimed, his determination and refusal to yield when something truly mattered to him. 

From his mother, he learned to recognize all the different parts of himself, then to study those around him to determine the positives and negatives involved in each trait.

From Tristan, he learned the necessity of patience. Agravaine showed him that it wasn't merely that a man was loyal that mattered so much, but exactly who and what he was loyal to. And his beloved parents... they countered one another perfectly, their deepest natures combining in their son in a way that ensured that the flaws that came from either extreme were much more easily avoided.

Ygraine's gentle spirit ensured that Arthur would find ways to resist succumbing to the harsher, more rigid elements of his father's personality. And Uther's fierce pride guaranteed that those who sought to exploit the young king in future years due to his innate sense of compassion would find such a thing to be much more difficult than they might have anticipated.

But when Arthur focused on these things a little _too_ much, Ygraine would smile and encourage him to put them aside. "It doesn't matter so much where you came from, only where you will go in life. Think not of the man we have created, only who he will decide to be."

Arthur wouldn't understand her meaning as a youth barely on the cusp of manhood... but in future years, when he fought all the battles that were not based on the causes he'd inherited, but those he truly believed to be right, it was always his mother's voice that would echo in his ears.

"Follow your heart, Arthur."

But he would never know it was she who spoke to him in that soft, phantom voice.

* * *

"Arthur? Arthur!"

He kept his eyes closed, willing the blasted manservant away. Really, what on earth had convinced his father it would be a good idea to hire the bumbling fool?

"Arthur?"

"Go away," he grumbled peevishly. "I revoke your permission to enter my chambers."

"Arthur..." Merlin said insistently, accompanied by the loud sound of... rustling leaves and breaking branches? "You're not in your chambers. You slipped out for a little ride this morning, and you must have fallen asleep. Come on, we need to get back to Camelot before your father realizes you're gone."

He muttered to himself as he opened his eyes, a vague memory of sitting down to relax against a tree flickering in his mind. Fell asleep... yes, well it was no wonder he'd needed a nap, with this idiot's never ceasing energy and relentless conversation hounding him day and night. All the same, it was careless to have allowed himself to fall asleep here in the middle of the forest, alone and unguarded. He had responsibilities, his people, a kingdom to think of.

"Foolish mistake," he mumbled as he rose to his feet. "How did you find me?"

Merlin shot him a guilty look. "I followed you."

_"Merlin!"_

"Sorry."

Naturally, the insufferably cheeky servant didn't sound apologetic in the least. Arthur let it pass, readying to mount his horse, then pausing and studying the boy's face more closely.

"I never saw you. Didn't hear you either. Why not?"

"I was quiet, sire. I... I didn't want to disturb you. You looked like you needed some time to yourself."

"So you just waited?"

"Yes."

"Hrrumph," was all he offered in response, though the admission made him feel... he wasn't sure. Exposed? Merlin was like that sometimes. Whenever Arthur had once again managed to dismiss him as entirely useless, he did something, said something that made it clear he understood much more about his master than anyone else did. It was uncomfortable, to be sure, but in a strange way... _nice_. It certainly made him feel a lot less alone than he normally did on his birthday.

"Sire?"

Arthur huffed, turning his face away so Merlin wouldn't see the evidence of his embarrassment spreading in red splotches across his cheeks. "Well, I hope you can find your way back by yourself," he said impassively, just before he took off at a headlong gallop.

But no more than a quarter of a mile into his ride, he brought the horse to a standstill and waited patiently for his obnoxious, but occasionally not _completely_ hopeless new servant.


	7. Guinevere's Unknown Freedom

#  **Guinevere's Unknown Freedom**

* * *

_Insufferable..._ Merlin was entirely correct. Sometimes Arthur really was a... well, Gwen was too furious at the moment to choose from among Merlin's numerous insults. She lay in bed fuming as she waited impatiently for Arthur to fall asleep, an event which would no doubt be heralded by his obnoxious snore.

... and as far as being right where Arthur was concerned, she'd hit the nail on the head on that first night they'd ever shared the same sleeping quarters. He really _did_ sound like a pig when he slept.

"Goodnight, Guinevere," he murmured pleasantly, oblivious to her anger as he flopped over onto his stomach with a loud grunt.

Typical. The man was definitely the most unobservant person she'd ever met in her life. Unless she spelled them out for him in no uncertain terms, he remained blissfully unaware of her feelings, especially the ones that caused her to lapse into silence.

"Goodnight, Arthur," she said through gritted teeth.

It had all started earlier that evening when they'd been entertaining Lord Lionel and his new bride over a lovely dinner. The hapless young woman had knocked over a goblet of wine, shrieking in horror as the deep red liquid had soaked into the snowy white tablecloth.

Shushing her apologies with a reassuring smile, Gwen had risen to her feet and reached for a cleaning cloth.

What had followed was something she'd never forget – a pair of scandalized gasps, followed by an awkward laugh that had sounded almost... _embarrassed_.

"Guinevere, what are you doing?" Arthur had hissed under his breath, closing a hand around her wrist and pushing it beneath the table. "Queens don't do that!"

And then he'd called for Merlin.

"I dismissed Merlin for the evening," she'd said shortly.

"You did what?"

"He was exhausted, Arthur. I thought it might be nice to let him make an early night of it for once."

"Exhausted? Lazy is more like it. Really, Guinevere, don't you think I should be consulted about these things?"

Neither of them had noticed when Lord Lionel and his wife had mumbled their excuses and slipped from the chamber, eager to avoid the brewing argument.

"Merlin is _not_ lazy," she'd responded irritably, snatching her hand away to scrub at the offending mess. "You work him much too hard, Arthur. He needed a break."

" _Merlin!_ " Arthur had bellowed loudly enough to wake the entire castle. "Put that down, Guinevere. You'll ruin your dress."

"Arthur! I don't mind cleaning it up, really. What's the point in disturbing someone else at this hour?"

"You're a queen now. It just isn't proper for you to work like a servant."

Gwen had scowled at him, scrubbing even more furiously at the stained tablecloth. "So I mustn't lift a finger to do anything useful, yet I can't make any decisions concerning our staff without your consent, Tell me, Arthur, what exactly do you expect a queen to do?"

"I..." and then she'd felt a pang of sympathy for him as he'd floundered, remembering that he'd never had the opportunity to grow up around any examples of queenly behavior.

But her momentary compassion had faded when Merlin stumbled into the chamber, yawning hugely as he'd rubbed at a pillow crease on his cheek.

"Go back to bed, Merlin," she'd said gently, at the same time Arthur had demanded, "Take care of this mess."

"Arthur..." she'd protested as Merlin had started to clear the table. "This really isn't necessary."

"He doesn't mind, do you, Merlin?"

The servant had shot them both a sleepy smile. "Of course not."

And with that, Gwen had thrown up her hands in frustration and left the chamber.

She'd expected the argument to continue when Arthur had come upstairs a little while later; instead, he'd launched into a lengthy and altogether useless account of that day's training session. He'd prattled on and on about some new combat maneuver Gwaine had introduced, completely oblivious to the way she'd stormed around the chamber as they'd readied themselves for bed.

Gwen was brought back to the present by a telltale snuffle, followed by a loud snore. Her lips curved into a humorless smile. Oblivious? Well, perhaps for once, that would work in her favor.

She slipped out of bed, exchanging her nightdress for a simple gown and dark velvet cloak. Cautiously, she let herself out of the chamber and crept along the deserted corridors, emerging with a sigh of relief into the dimly lit tunnel that led beyond the city walls.

Arthur would be horrified to know she was out by herself at such a late hour, but it wasn't the first time she'd done it, and she was quite certain that it wouldn't be the last. Dangerous or not, sometimes she just needed a little room to _breathe_.

The forest just ahead was illuminated by the light of a full moon, soft and ethereal as it beckoned her forward with promises of solitude, comfort, and peace. Gwen sought it eagerly, disappearing into the trees with a sigh of relief.

She didn't go far... only a few dozen paces were necessary to reach the fallen log where she'd made a seat for herself many times in the past, inhaling the sweet fragrances of night blossoms and fresh green foliage as she sought to put an end to her troubled thoughts.

Something was different tonight, however. It took her a minute or to figure out what it was, and then it came to her... the soft tinkling of water just a few feet away.

Curious, she pushed aside a heavy growth of ferns, gasping in surprise as her eyes fell upon the tiny spring that lay shimmering in the moonlight. Sinking to her knees, she trailed her fingers across the glassy surface, enjoying the water's coolness as her mind returned to the source of her distress.

It wasn't that she was unhappy... she really _did_ love Arthur, and her two short months of being queen had been pleasant for the most part. But every once in a while, she couldn't help feeling stifled by her new position and all the expectation that came along with it. Sometimes she wondered if Arthur had been aware of how much she'd be obligated to _prove_ in order to be considered worthy of her new position.

Had he thought about the impossible standards by which she'd find herself judged? Probably not – the best thing about Arthur was that he seldom cared what the rest of the world thought about him marrying a servant. And yet the worst thing was that he didn't realize that his lack of concern didn't stop the world from forming its own opinions.

Expectation... sometimes it bothered Gwen to realize that she'd spent most of her life conforming to what the Pendragons required of her at any given time. She'd been a maidservant... not just any maidservant either, but one who was meticulously trained to respond to Morgana's every whim. Following that, she'd been tutored in the most effective ways to care for the ailing King Uther, a man she'd secretly despised, because again, that was the duty which had been laid out for her.

Strangely enough, being queen was the most difficult position of all. Perhaps it was the fact that Arthur and his family had spent so many years grooming her to serve... how could she be expected to dismiss a lifetime of habit simply because she put on a fancy dress and sat beside the king?

Why was it so difficult for him to understand that part of her would always be a servant?

 _... because he's had his destiny laid out before him since birth,_ she realized. _He's never had to adjust to any role other than the one he's been preparing for since he drew his first breath._

She held up her hand, watching the crystal droplets fall like rain from her fingertips. No, it wasn't that she was unhappy with her choices, but whenever a new challenge presented itself, another instance of feeling that she didn't quite "fit", she couldn't help but wonder what sort of life she might have had if her fate hadn't been determined by her relationship with the Pendragons.

Caught up in that thought, she absently raised her fingers to her lips, sucking away the remaining moisture. The thick bed of ferns beneath her seemed softer, more inviting, and suddenly, it was impossible to resist the temptation to stretch out on her back and close her eyes... only for a minute...

* * *

"I must leave Camelot immediately."

She stared up into the boy's dark eyes, so soft and full of hope, and wondered how he could manage to feel anything other than anger or crushing disappointment after the way the king had treated him.

"I'm sorry, Lancelot," she said gently, feeling another stab of resentment for the unfeeling tyrant who'd failed to give such a remarkable person the appreciation he deserved. Even after being humiliated and thrown in the dungeons, he'd ridden out against that terrible creature, risking his life to achieve that which Arthur and all the Knights of Camelot had failed to do.

Lancelot had saved all their lives, and what did he receive in return? Nothing but scorn. It made her positively ill.

"Come with me."

"What?" she stared up at him in shock, certain she'd misunderstood.

He shifted on the balls of his feet, biting his lip as he avoided her eyes. "I'm sorry, my lady... I know it's terribly presumptuous to even suggest such a thing, but..."

"We've only known each other for a few days," she said helplessly.

"I know. I just... there's something about you..."

She knew exactly what he was talking about. It didn't matter that each of them hadn't even known the other even existed only a week before. From the moment they'd met, there'd been something between them... a powerful attraction that was equal parts frightening and intriguing. How could she discover what it meant if she allowed him to leave, knowing very well she might never see him again?

"Can you... do you think you could give me a few hours to consider your offer? I... I would need to speak with my father if I decide to accept. And I'd have to gather my things, of course."

Lancelot broke into a relieved smile. "Of course. I will wait for you just beyond the city gates."

She showed him to the door, but as she started to turn away, he reached out and caught her arm. Suppressing a shiver at the unexpected contact, she turned back to find his dark eyes smoldering with some strong emotion she couldn't identify. Suddenly breathless, she waited for him to speak.

"Gwen, I just wanted you to know... if you're not comfortable, or if you change your mind, I'll understand. And I... I'll wait for you, no matter how long it takes. If you'd prefer me go forth alone, believe me when I say I'll find a way to return to you someday."

Then he leaned down and placed the softest of kisses upon her lips, and she surrendered with a sigh to the only thing that felt _right_ in a world that had always been filled with indecision.

Her choice was clear.

What need was there to wait, when the future was standing right in front of her, enveloping her body in an embrace that spoke to her of safety, comfort, devotion... love?

Informing her father wasn't easy – although he'd always credited Gwen with common sense and wisdom that went far beyond her years, it was obvious that he was terrified to let her go. It was only after numerous reassurances and promises to write every week that he reluctantly conceded, sending her off with a fierce hug and an unnecessary reminder that she was welcome to return at any time if her plans didn't work out as well as she hoped.

Morgana's hopelessly romantic nature couldn't help responding to the idea of running away with a sinfully handsome man, of course, but it was obvious she was distraught at the idea of losing her faithful maidservant... more than that, one of her most cherished friends.

The others offered their own objections... Merlin and Gaius both insisted her home was in Camelot, not adrift in the world where they could no longer see her every day. But in the end, Gwen silenced them all, and by sunset, she passed beyond the city gates to find Lancelot waiting faithfully for her arrival.

From that point on, there was no room for hesitation. They traveled together beyond the hills, through forests and mountains, becoming lovers one blissful night beneath a shimmering blanket of stars. Having little resources to speak of, they picked up whatever work they could find along their journey, and in time, the money they earned, combined with her meager savings, was enough to purchase a tiny cottage with a small patch of surprisingly fertile land.

Soon thereafter, Lancelot begged for her hand in marriage. Gwen gazed at him tenderly as he knelt at her feet, sun burnished and more than a little dirty from his tireless efforts in the field, and her choice was clear... a decision that had in truth been made since the day she'd packed her few possessions and placed her future at his feet.

But as happy as they were together throughout the next few years, it eventually became obvious that there was something missing. Neither of them acknowledged it aloud, but they both grew to recognize it in one another. Gwen saw it in the way Lancelot's eyes occasionally lingered on the scabbard hanging by the door, the blade inside blunted and dull from lack of use. He noticed it whenever she retrieved the box of letters from beneath their bed, every last one of them worn and creased after being read dozens of times.

And so when the message arrived at their doorstep, an urgent plea for assistance in Camelot's most desperate hour, there was no need for further discussion. They simply packed their bags, then set their feet on the path that would carry them home.

* * *

Gwen gradually came back to consciousness, disoriented by the heavy silence all around her. Where was Arthur? She couldn't recall the last time she'd fallen asleep without the strangely comforting rumble of his snore in her ears.

She sat up, blinking several times as she remembered where she was and how she'd come to be there. It had been an unpleasant evening, made significantly worse by the fact that it had triggered all the frustrations she'd been keeping to herself over the past couple of months. It wasn't like her to be so resentful, however, and now that her anger had faded, she felt deeply guilty for the unpleasant thoughts she'd directed at her husband. Whatever flaws Arthur might have, he never had anything less than the best of intentions where she was concerned.

Thankfully, she was able to slip back into the palace undetected, relieved to discover that he was still sound asleep, oblivious to her nighttime wanderings.

With a relieved smile, she changed into her nightdress and slipped into bed beside him, laying her head on his bare shoulder. No, life certainly wasn't perfect... there were quite a few adjustments that needed to be made before she'd be comfortable in her new role as queen.

But as far as what could've been if she'd chosen another path, Gwen knew with absolute certainty that she'd have never been able to abandon this beloved city. And despite his shortcomings, Arthur had given her the greatest gift of all when he'd made her his queen. She now had the power to be directly involved in the safety and protection of Camelot, the only place on earth where she truly belonged.

In exchange for that, she supposed she could abstain from cleaning up a few messes here and there.


	8. Balinor's Second Chance

#  **Balinor's Second Chance**

* * *

Over the years, Balinor had learned to bury his emotions somewhere deep inside, stashed away in some dark, forgotten corner where they had no effect on the simple act of surviving from one day to the next. Prepare food, gather water, eat, sleep... the routine was bearable enough, especially when combined with the small solace to be found in practicing a bit of magic deep within his cave at the end of a long day.

Sometimes he could even convince himself that he was... not happy, certainly, but reasonably content.

Unfortunately, it was a lie, one that never held up in the face of even the vaguest reminder of all he'd lost – flower that reminded him of the color of Hunith's eyes, the wild strawberries that grew in early summer, recalling soft, delicate fingers holding their sweetness to his lips. Balinor had always assumed these memories would fade in time, certainly after more than twenty years had passed in solitude.

Unfortunately, they never did.

A single reminder, and he'd be back there all over again, young and frightened, and so very angry as he was forced to leave behind the woman he loved, along with all of the beautiful promise in that life he'd so desperately wanted. How cruel fate was... it wasn't enough that it had stolen the dragons, destroyed his greatest and only purpose up until that point. With a great deal of grief, he'd accepted his losses, resolved to make a new start with another life he'd never expected, yet could have given him the peace that had eluded him ever since Uther had unleashed his tyranny upon the world of magic.

Why couldn't the unfeeling bastard have just left him alone? Why couldn't he have remained in that peaceful village, gladly forswearing any further use of magic just for the chance to stay with her?

Instead, he'd been forced to flee like a criminal, a man who hadn't uttered a single incantation in months... who'd certainly _never_ done so with the intention of causing harm to another person.

These thoughts haunted Balinor as he trudged blindly through the trees, somehow sharper and more painful then they'd been in years. It had been a dream that had done it – his traitorous subconscious bringing forth a carefully suppressed recollection of a woman lying in his arms, soft and sweet in the aftermath of their shared passion. His mind had conjured it up so vividly, from the velvety texture of her bare skin, to the faint fragrance of daisies that had clung to the tousled brown tendrils of hair as they'd spilled across his chest.

Awakening from that dream, from warm contentment to the stark, cold reality of his isolated cave, had shaken Balinor to the core. He'd risen and jerked on his clothes, with no other intention but to escape... to somehow remove himself from the painful reality of all he'd lost.

Of course, that was impossible. Her absence, his solitude was the reminder... no headlong rush through the trees was going to make it go away, with no other company than his own harsh, ragged breaths and the silent forest all around him. Alone, always alone.

He dropped to his knees beside the little spring that seemed to have appeared overnight, hardly sparing a thought for its unfamiliarity as he cupped his hands and bathed his face in the cool, soothing water. By instinct more than conscious choice, he drank deeply, his throat parched in the aftermath of his unaccustomed exertions.

Breakfast... yes, he should resume his normal routine, lose himself in ordinary activity until his dismal mood faded back into welcome numbness. But he was tired, so tired... weary after half a lifetime of trying to fight against the simple need to feel, to love, to be something more than what he'd become. Just a brief rest, that was all he needed...

* * *

"What is it?"

She stood before him, visibly trembling as she held out the unfurled parchment. His eyes fell upon the seal first, that distinctive Pendragon sigil which represented everything he had once served faithfully, but now...

Balinor hesitated, quite certain he knew exactly what it would say. It would demand his surrender, promising death if he tried to elude the king's justice. He let out a bitter laugh at the thought – as if the same fate wouldn't be awaiting him whether he came willingly or not. He had magic, and in these dark times, magic equaled death. How many innocent people had he known, had he loved, that had learned the hard way that there was no such thing as mercy anymore?

"Just read it," Hunith said quietly.

"There's no need. We both knew this day was coming, did we not? I... I have to leave. As soon as possible. I wish... well, there's no time for that now. I'll be gone before sundown. There's..."

"Balinor. Read it."

And for the first time, he looked at her more closely. She was indeed trembling, but she didn't appear frightened or distraught in any way. On the contrary, her cheeks were rosy, blue eyes shining with an emotion it took him a moment to identify as hope. More than that, she... was that a _smile?!_

Suddenly curious, he reached out and took the parchment from her fingers.

**OFFICIAL DECREE OF ROYAL PARDON**

_It is with the deepest regret that I must announce the death of our noble sovereign, King Uther Pendragon. I do not have the words to describe what a monumental loss this is for the kingdom of Camelot, particularly when his only son and heir, Prince Arthur, is far too young to rule in his stead._

_According to the last Will and Testament of our dearly departed king, I, Lord Gorlois of Cornwall, have been charged with the stewardship of this realm until our young prince should come of age._

_Therefore, by the power vested in me, I hereby decree that the ban on magic shall be lifted forthwith, accompanied by my apology to all those who have suffered as a result of a well intended, but terribly misguided assault on some of our most valued citizens. Provided they have not been charged with additional crimes, all magic users throughout the kingdom are hereby permitted to resume their normal lives, free from the threat of retribution._

_To further express my regret, allow me to make myself clear: Prince Arthur will be brought up to practice justice and tolerance toward all our citizens, in a dedicated effort not to repeat a most shameful part of our shared history._

_In closing, I bid you all to enjoy your freedom. Please use it wisely._

_Lord Gorlois of Cornwall, Steward of Camelot_

Balinor sank heavily onto the bed, the parchment falling from his limp fingers. He swallowed the lump in his throat, looking up at Hunith with eyes that were bright with unshed tears.

"It's over. It's really over." 

"I..." she started. "I want to believe it, but how can we be sure? Who is Gorlois? What if it's a trap?"

He released a shaky breath and retrieved the parchment from the floor, tracing his fingers over the lettering in an almost loving gesture. "This is no trap. I'd know this handwriting anywhere. Gorlois was the king's dearest friend."

"But..."

"He never agreed with Uther's treatment of my kind. When it first began, he was one of the loudest and most vehement protesters... and in the long run, one of the few who never stopped defending our cause. He risked his wealth, position, his own life to speak on our behalf, and... well, he's a great man. A truly great man. I feel honored to be holding the truth of that right here in my hands."

Hunith gave him a tentative smile. "But if all that is true, then why would the king leave him in command? Surely he must have known it would lead to this."

Balinor considered the question. "It's hard to say. Perhaps the will hadn't been altered since before the ban on magic was brought into existence. Maybe Uther simply realized there was no one else he could trust as much as Gorlois, despite their differing opinions. Whatever the reason, we can only be grateful for the result. Perhaps it's wrong to rejoice at a man's death, but..."

"No, I understand," Hunith said gently, laying a soft hand over his own. "Speak no more of it."

"Freedom," Balinor said, running his fingers through his thick brown hair as he stared off into the distance. "It's been so long since I even dared to hope for such a thing. I just... I can't believe it."

"What will you do?" she said almost abruptly, and he was surprised when he looked up to see genuine fear in her eyes. "Will you go back?"

And then suddenly, he understood. In the blink of an eye, she was in his arms, cradled tightly against his chest as he planted a tender kiss on the top of her head. "I don't intend on going anywhere," he murmured into her hair, feeling her sigh in relief as she snuggled more closely against him. "I wish the new ruler of Camelot well, but my days of service to the kingdom are behind me. There's nothing I'd like more than to stay here with you, to enjoy the life I was beginning to think we'd never have a chance to build together."

"Oh, Balinor..."

He smiled, rubbing soothing circles between her shoulder blades as she sniffled, her tears soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt. "That is, if you'll have me."

She pulled away, shooting him a glare that wasn't even remotely convincing. "Don't be ridiculous! You know..."

"I know," he said softly. "I know."

It wasn't until later that night, after they'd made love slowly, almost lazily, relishing the first taste of a life lived without the constant threat of separation hanging over their heads, that she finally made his world complete with a shy smile and four simple words.

"I am with child."

* * *

Balinor hardly remembered lying down for his impromptu nap, but he was rather glad he'd done so. Granted, he still felt miserable, but it was tolerable now... a dull ache compared with the soul wrenching grief he'd felt earlier that morning. Sighing in resignation, he set about gathering firewood on the way back to his cave.

And then he sensed it... not just a human presence, but something more than that. He didn't know what it was, but there was a definite change in the air, whispers of powerful magic other than his own… something he hadn't felt in more than two decades.

He swallowed his excitement as he crept closer to the cave, reminding himself that "powerful" didn't necessarily mean "good." A movement out of the corner of his eye was all it took – he fell upon the intruder, determined to show nothing but the hostility born of caution that he had so carefully honed throughout his long years of exile. It had sent many a man fleeing in terror, and kept quite a few from ever approaching his solitary hovel in the first place.

"What do you want here, boy?"

"My friend, he's sick! He needs help!"

Balinor could've told him to leave. He could have given him directions to the nearest village where there happened to be a quite competent healer. But for the first time since he'd come to this place, angry and alone, determined not to allow the rest of the world to hurt him any longer, he was surprised to find himself reluctant to order another human being away. There was something... something about those eyes that demanded a closer look.

"Show me, boy," he demanded roughly.

It was probably nothing more than simple chance that had brought the boy to his cave at just this moment. And yet, with the palpable aura of magic in the air and a pair of bright blue eyes that somehow hinted at everything good he had known and been and wished for in his previous life, Balinor couldn't escape the uncanny feeling that his world was about to change forever.


	9. A Knight's Reward

#  **A Knight's Reward**

* * *

"I'm freezing my balls off," Gwaine managed from between clenched teeth. "Is this bloody storm ever going to end?"

If the other knights heard him, they were either too cold or too weary to respond. Five figures sat huddled together under a barely sheltered alcove as thick snow whirled just beyond their reach, hunching forward in a futile effort to absorb the meager warmth provided by their tiny fire.

It had been more than three weeks since Arthur had sent his men north, in pursuit of yet another rumor that Morgana had indeed survived the defeat of her immortal army and was gathering new forces to strike back against the kingdom that had driven her out. And that was understandable, really... even the slightest chance of preventing the sorceress from returning and wreaking havoc upon Camelot's innocent citizens all over again was worth a little discomfort.

But sometimes it was hard for the newly made knight to remember the reason behind these miserable patrols. He'd been expecting... well, it was hard to say what he'd believed service to Arthur might entail. After having spent most of his lifetime turning his nose up at the institution, Gwaine had to admit to himself that he'd had very little idea of what a knight actually _did_ outside of battle. True, his own father had been a knight, but all Gwaine's memories were based around a time of constant warfare. Beyond that, he was clueless.

Trying to resist the urge to cuddle up to Elyan for additional warmth, he thought back to the legends he'd read as a child. Menacing beasts to be conquered, and fair damsels in distress... glorious tournaments with prizes of golden riches and precious jewels, always followed by a sumptuous banquet, trestle tables overflowing with the best the kingdom had to offer in food and wine.

He scoffed at himself, realizing that at least subconsciously, he'd never stopped believing those things to be true. What a fool he'd been, only three months before when he'd knelt at Arthur's feet, determined to win the battle ahead and enjoy the spoils of victory. Spoils? There had been no wealth, no glory, no beautiful women begging for his favors... only the exhausting efforts of reconstruction and countless patrols filled with terrible weather and meager supplies. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept in a comfortable bed, or had eaten anything other than dried meat and hard cheese.

Arthur was firm in the belief that as many rations as possible should be distributed among the poorer citizens of the kingdom, whose already limited food stores had been devastated by the invading army. And Gwaine agreed with that, too, really... but he couldn't keep himself from longing for a steaming hot platter of venison, along with a thick loaf of fresh baked bread with creamy butter.

Gods, he was hungry... famished and cold, and so very tired. It wasn't that he begrudged his new life, but it would be nice to have a bit of a break once in a while.

"N-need more firewood," Elyan stuttered out, poking at the embers in a futile attempt to generate more heat.

"I'll get it," Lancelot said automatically, grimacing as he struggled to rise.

Gwaine frowned. As much as he longed to rest after the seemingly endless day of trudging through the snow, he couldn't ignore the fact that Lancelot worked harder than the others, always the first to volunteer himself for any chore that might arise. He studied the other man closely, noticing the dark circles of fatigue beneath his eyes, then rose himself, placing a restraining hand on Lancelot's shoulder.

"No," he said firmly. "Allow me."

It was a testament to how weary Lancelot actually was when he offered no protest.

"Firewood," Gwaine muttered to himself as he stepped out into the blinding whiteness. "Where to find firewood?"

It seemed like a hopeless endeavor; as far as the eye could see, everything was blanketed in white. But he had to find wood somehow, if for no other reason than they would all surely freeze to death before morning if he did not. And so he changed direction, pushing his way through the drifts toward a cluster of barren trees in the distance. The feeling of defeat became stronger as he drew closer, unable to see any low-lying branches or fallen limbs that might serve as kindling for the swiftly waning fire.

But as he stepped inside the little vale, the temperature itself seemed to shift. Sheltered from the snow and wind, it felt warmer somehow, indescribably inviting as he passed beneath the trees. For the first time in days, he could hear something other than the relentless whistle of frigid air, relishing in the blessed relief of... silence.

Gwaine forgot all about his mission as he pressed deeper into the wood, the stillness gradually replaced by the low, pleasant tinkle of running water. Frowning to himself, he squeezed through a narrow opening between two towering trunks, then gasped aloud as his eyes fell upon the last thing he'd have expected to see in the middle of such a barren wasteland.

Closely surrounded by what seemed like an almost unnaturally thick cluster of trees lay a small stream, babbling merrily as it flowed freely, inexplicably not iced over like every other body of water to be found this far north in the middle of winter. But even more curious was the vegetation on either side, lush and green, impervious to the destructive touch of icy winds. Just a bit further lay a little spring, crystal-clear and flowing over a bed of smooth rocks; Gwaine hurried forward and knelt down to graze his fingers across the surface, surprised to find that the water was actually warm.

As a matter of fact, the feeling extended beyond his fingertips; he didn't feel cold at all anymore. The steam rising from the surface wrapped around him like a cozy blanket, urging him to stretch out on the thick green grass and extend his cupped hands, bringing the water to his lips.

But no... he stopped himself just before he drank, suddenly remembering the four comrades that were still barely sheltered from the driving snow, depending on him to supply what meager warmth he could in such miserable conditions. Reluctantly, he rose to his feet, his conscience not allowing him to luxuriate in the warm little grove any longer without the men he'd come to care for deeply... far more deeply than he'd realized until that moment.

And so it was back out into the cold, into the biting sting of the icy wind that whipped at his skin like a thousand tiny lashes. Back across the frozen field to the huddled figures gathered around the smoldering ashes of a fire which had dwindled down to nothing. Four pairs of eyes glanced sharply upward, the hope within them dying as surely as their little blaze had sputtered out as they noticed his empty arms.

"Nothing?" Percival said dully. "I guess we're done for."

Gwaine treated each of them to a wide grin. "No we're not. Come with me."

Elyan groaned aloud. "I'm hardly in the mood for one of your jokes, Gwaine. Can't you just let us freeze to death in peace?"

"On your feet, dammit. I've found better shelter."

Grumbling to themselves, the knights rose stiffly, leaning against one another as they stamped the feeling back into their frozen feet. It was a testament to the unspoken trust between them that they followed Gwaine without further question, dragging themselves through the heavy drifts until they reached the glade that from outward appearances, seemed every bit as desolate as the landscape they'd left behind.

But then Gwaine watched their expressions transform as the warmth gradually wrapped around them all, pinched faces relaxing into expressions of wonder as they squeezed through the tiny opening between the tree trunks and emerged into the verdant thicket.

"What is this place?" Lancelot breathed in quiet awe.

"I don't know," he replied thoughtfully. "But I'm sure as hell glad I found it."

The other knights murmured their agreement as they investigated further, Sir Leon letting out a spontaneous exclamation of delight as he pointed to a nearby tree, leafy and heavily laden with ripe apples. The men rushed forward, stuffing their pockets with fruit before sinking down beside the spring, murmuring their joy and disbelief as they filled their empty bellies.

"This is impossible," Elyan muttered, even as he sank his teeth into a large red apple with a loud crunch. "It's the middle of winter!"

"Perhaps," Lancelot said softly. "Perhaps not. There's magic in the air. I can feel it."

The other men glanced about nervously.

"Should we leave?" Elyan whispered.

Lancelot should his head, but it was Sir Leon who spoke. "Not all magic is evil. I know what the king believes, and what he has raised Prince Arthur to believe as well. And of course, we are all bound to defend those beliefs, but..."

"You don't agree?" Percival inquired. "I guess... I never thought about it much. But Morgana..."

Sir Leon sighed. "Yes, it certainly has the capacity to be used for evil. We all know that. But I don't think it always is. Just before the battle we fought, my life was saved by magic. The Druids healed me, asking nothing in return. Surely that's not evil?"

Lancelot smiled. "Indeed it isn't. I, too, have been lucky enough to witness the more positive side of magic. It can be a blessing, as much as it can be a curse."

The others waited for him to elaborate further; when he didn't, the subject was dropped as they returned to their impromptu feast. Lazing about on the grass, they talked and laughed among themselves at first, and then each grew drowsy after they'd slaked their thirst from the shimmering pool beside them. One by one, they drifted off to sleep, murmuring in contentment as the warm mist from the steaming water carried them into the land of dreams.

Lying peacefully on his back with his head cradled in a fragrant bed of ferns, Sir Lancelot dreamed of a soft touch and a gentle smile, the essence of a woman he'd loved for what seemed like a lifetime.

Sprawled on his stomach with one hand trailing in the water, Sir Elyan dreamed of glory through tireless service to the future king, an honorable redemption to wipe away all past regrets.

Curled up on his side with a half eaten apple in his open palm, Sir Leon dreamed of a smiling wife and a brood of children with honey colored curls, welcoming him home after a long patrol.

Propped up against a nearby tree trunk, Sir Percival dreamed of his fallen family, smiling at him in gratitude and approval for his choice to devote his life to ensuring that similar tragedies wouldn't befall other innocent people.

But instead of riches and jewels, beautiful women and sumptuous feasts, Sir Gwaine lay with his head resting on Percival's lap, dreaming of the friends who surrounded him, a swirl of mishmashed images which all revolved around a profound sense of companionship he could've never hoped to find throughout all his long years of aimless wandering.

The knights would never remember these dreams, nor the little spring which had guided them to the unconscious enjoyment of their deepest desires. But they would all be struck with a similar realization as they awoke in the morning to find that spring had fallen across the land – the shared epiphany that despite all their losses, their disappointments and regrets, no matter how discouraging or even downright miserable their lives might be at times, they would always have one another from this moment forward. 

Deeper than friendship, more closely bonded than words or vows could ever express, it was a simple truth that would remain with them throughout the rest of their lives.

One man's choice to delay his own comfort in an effort to bring solace to his friends was the very essence of what it meant to be a Knight of Camelot.

**~ The End ~**


End file.
